Night's Sweet Benediction
by Sinical-Sarchasm
Summary: When we are led to far astray on ugly paths, Night is a sweet benediction to us. PG-13 for angst and for blood and gore and just in case.


A/N: The idea has been lurking, waiting to be written, and thus... 

Disclaimer: Use your brain and figure it out for yourself. 

***

Sweet, dark Night falls upon me as a benediction. Every time the dark creature named Night comes upon me it is so, for the darkness means that I do not have the light that allows me to see. I cannot see the dismayed eyes, the mangled corpses, the cold face, and my own confused self. 

The darkness, Night, was once a malediction, something I dreaded, did not want. Were we not all afraid of the dark once? We did, in those days in which our world was a beautiful place that offered solace and happiness, and the light allowed us to see it. Dark forced us to descend into the deeper, profound waters of nothingness, of pure darkness. 

But the deep, difficult, profound waters become a comfort from the cruel things which that deceptive, cruel Day forces us to put our gazes upon, no matter how hard we try to avert them from those ugly scenes. Ugly scenes -- ones which we cause, ones which befall us, ones which we merely never wanted to lay eyes on. 

The first time Night appeared the benediction, service, which it really is was on that first night I spent at Hogwarts. Hidden by the scarlet curtains, I wished that Day would just leave me so that the light which it emitted would not pervade into the newly found realms of my mind, my heart, and myself. The Sorting Hat... 

It had wanted to put me into Slytherin. Me, whom I thought such a perfect Gryffindor, be put in Slytherin? The confounded Hat said how much I wanted power. That I would be an asset to my house. But I fought. I knew that if you fought hard enough with the thing you would win, for I knew that others had fought with the ugly creature and eventually did win. 

Win. That is my goal. To win, to conquer over all: over myself, over the light illuminates all, over human nature, over everyone, over Day, even over the life or death, that which seems like you cannot choose or conquer. 

I won the first battle: to win over the Hat. The Hat put me in Gryffindor. Stupid, unknowing creature. I know that I'm power-hungry, a Slytherin, good well. I see it there, the light illuminating it so that I will notice the sparkle, the glint which it creates, as if to catch my eye and ruin my life. 

It shouted the single word: "GRYFFINDOR," for all to hear, all to observe, all to realize. They expected it from the brief moment in which they heard my name. They saw not the lurking truth behind it, for it is something not even the cruel daylight chose to show. It didn't choose to show it then, at least. Not then. 

I made my way to the table amidst unenthusiastic applause. Why should it be enthusiastic, though? I was just another person whom the creature Day cast its light upon for them to see. 

That was what cured my fear of darkness. Strange, perhaps, that even at the age of eleven I was afraid of the dark, but that is what comes of innocence: one wants to be able to see all those beauties which innocence traps them in, seductively and falsely leading them on paths which soon will crumble into dust and leave the innocent in want of but one thing: darkness that will hide from them the truth that shattered the precious creature which we call innocence. 

Day seemed to yet remain just a little kind back then, however, as it let the light shine only into my own eyes, letting the others be blind. Or that's how it seemed to me, at any rate. Now I know that Day was just practicing her cruel torture of prolonging it to make me hurt the most when it finally shone the light on me and let everyone behold. 

Nonetheless I looked towards sweet Night with the eagerness of a small child awaiting Santa Claus. It would rescue me from having to behold myself with that light, and from the risk that someone else might, quite mistakenly -- or quite on purpose -- walk in and see with eyes wide open. 

And slowly but surely, Day faded into Night, malediction into benediction. Safe at last a safe haven which had once been a dread, a fear: darkness and Night. And I rest in this haven, but only for a few hours. 

They still do not see and yet what they do not see has sucked me in. It is power. A beautiful yet malignant creature which I have been predestined for ever since that day, years ago, when the Sorting Hat tried to put me in Slytherin. 

Power struck its first mighty blow that day when I graduated. I knew that I was destined for power, for Night could only protect me for a few hours; then I was exposed to Day, showing me Power and my ugly future and dread and Slytherin and what could have been and... 

The Ministry. There I should be able to find power, the power which I so need. That's what I thought then. Day's light was dimmed then, and I only saw a little, only saw that those in the Ministry had Power, that creature which I so needed. I tried that. 

But that wouldn't do. Not when the more powerful force rose, the one which achieved more power than the Ministry and anyone in it could dream of. Voldemort. Flight of Death. 

I smile wryly. He was the true source of Power. He was who really had it, held the key to all that I really wanted: Power. The Hat had known this, I suppose, and Day did too; it cast a blatant light upon it, glaring at me, saying, "Look! Look!" Today it infuriates me, that vile, ugly creature of Day. Why couldn't it have let me alone and just kept Night here. But no matter for now; the lovely night is falling. 

He gave me that power which I have so needed. It was a glaring piece of gold that I could not ignore; once I gave up on ignoring it, I had to pick it up; once I picked it up, I was obliged to keep it. So now it is retained here forever. I see this when Day shines it's light upon it; Night must fall quickly so that I can enjoy the moments of bliss that allow me to not see, not recognize. 

It was hard at first. To kill, to harm, to sneer, to go against those so-called morals on which I had been raised. But no matter whether it was hard; for anything is done in the name of Power. Day lets me see this and I am dismayed. 

It was hard, especially the killings at first. But I learned the art of being detached. It is easy to kill when you are not attached to it, when you are far from it, away, not a real part but just a machine exercising standard operation on some objects in the distance. 

Such was it with the atomic bomb. Truman -- how was he to care? He was half-way across the world, could not see them, did not know them. To them they were just the Enemy. Even the ones who dropped it -- they had little more contact. Given the situation I find it no wonder that they so easily killed. 

But what if they had to look the people in the eyes for just a few seconds from just a few feet away? What if they knew just a few of the victims. And what if -- just what if -- the only way to kill them was to go up to them and go straight at them, seeing the destruction they were causing, seeing it as it happened to the real people? 

Would they still be able to? 

I am dismayed for Day shows me that the answer still is yet. It sheds the light on the thing which I did myself: I had looked straight at them, I did know some, I did it write to them. But it was harder. Much harder. 

But that was later. In the beginning I just had to do it from a distance. It became easy. You just don't think about it. If you don't think about it, anyone can be a killer. It is no difficult task. The only reason it was I and not you who did is that I am more susceptible to it, being in a desperate need of power over all, omnipotence. That's all I did at first. Joined Voldemort and did a few little acts. 

When he, Father, found out, he disowned me. But not before I had already disowned him. Voldemort requested, I readily went along. Anything for that food I need which is called Power. Visage still calm and collected, I swore that I disowned Father and all connections to him. 

Just a day later he did the same. Day made me see that and the accompanying hurt, and then I wondered how I could still hurt after I had conquered the feelings of despair and sadness and hatred and anger one usually gets from killing. 

So I conquered hurt, too, and now I don't feel that, either. 

At least I usually don't. 

I didn't when I had to kill Albus. After all, I hardly knew the man in reality -- in spite of the fact that I had spent seven years at his school, I had little contact with the man -- and few reasons to care. I didn't have to look straight at his horror, shock, sadness, nor know his life. All I had to do was go, mutter a quick Avada Kedavra, and leave. Easy. 

That kind of killing it is easy to conquer the hurt which stems from. Easy to make it so that all Day shows you is that you did it. 

Then Day committed the ultimate act of cruelty, that which I had been dreading, had been filled with apprehension regarding for so long: it revealed the true me. That was stabbing, cruel, and that time, Night was at its kindest. 

But I eventually learned to conquer that hurt, too. 

I could even conquer things like Cruciatus so that all Day showed me was the event, that it was happening, no emotions. It is easy to freeze yourself within so that Day can reveal nothing, nothing to you, nothing to others. 

I thought I had conquered it all except for death. 

But I was wrong. There was yet one thing left for me to conquer, one thing I had not yet achieved Power over. 

That was what I felt when I finally did It and Day showed me it all. 

I still remember Voldemort giving the assignment to me: "There will be a large meeting. You are to attack." 

"With Avada Kedavra and Cruciatus?" The question was normally useless, for those were how all assignments were. It was quite rhetorical, or so I thought. 

So I wished. Day shed light on the truth as Voldemort spoke: "No. A particular cruel and ugly death. You are to kill them with two non-magical weapons just to hurt them the most: first leave them begging for mercy with the sword I lie before you..." my insides twist with apprehension, not just at this but at what I dread is coming,"...and with this." He pulls out a gun. 

I have to actually come into contact with these people and do this, not just mutter a few words and leave, I realize. How can I do this? At least they will be strangers... 

"Many will be there," Voldemort continues, "Including your family and some of your...er...former friends." 

So much for strangers, I think bitterly as Day gives its truth unsolicited. How can I do this? My own family, my own friends, I must brutally torture with a sword and then shoot with a gun? How...how can it happen? I am torn inwardly, wondering how -- not if, not why, not when, but how -- I am going to do this. But my visage and my facade remain cool, calm, collected as I tell Voldemort, "Yes, Master." 

It is fresh in my mind as though it was yesterday -- perhaps because it was. And then today. 

Day was particularly cruel today and I want to crush her, trod her down as I do the dust on which my weary feet plod along each time Day enters my cursed life. 

I entered to do the task I so wanted not to do but yet knew I was destined to do, had to do. Day had made me aware of this. Confound Day. 

Blood flows, crimson like the curtains hanging from my bed that first time when I longed for Night. From all of them, all my family, all my friends, all strangers. I cut into their skin viciously, making terror that none can stop. I survey the scene through the ugly light Day gives, seeing that beautiful crimson substance. 

I pretend to be glad. I'm a psycho killer, so I have to pretend to be glad. But inside I twist and wonder how I can do this and how I am torturing and about to kill my family and everyone who used to be everything to me and how... 

My thoughts trail off and I am scared, just scared as I throw down the sword at last. I shoot them. Sometimes in different places but always ending in the head where I know it will do them off for good. They have lost too much blood and are in too much shock to do anything. It has all went as planned. 

And that's what angers me the most. 

Not that they are killed, but that I was powerless. I hadn't really attained that Power. Voldemort had complete and total power over me all this time, making me do this, causing me to see these things by the light of Day. The Power which I had thought I saw with Day was just an illusion which Day created in a cruel whim. 

I have had no Power. 

But no time to think about that now as I survey these ugly, mangled corpses which were created by my very own hand. They all wear identical expressions: faces of hate, eyes wide with shock, bodies racked with anguish. All identical. 

All but one. 

Mangled, hurt, mutilated though she was -- and all this by my own hand -- I still behold her by Day's light as my sister. She too is shocked and terrified and still has tears upon her face. But there on her face there is no hate and there is an expression I saw on none that somehow Day lets me see, not hiding anything, letting me see it completely, entirely. 

It is forgiveness. 

She has forgiven me, my little sister forgiven me. Even though all I thought about and my only thought even now is Power and even though all I can wish for is Night, she gives me forgiveness. Simple, beautiful. It is on her face. 

But I cannot forgive myself, for I have no reason to. Her forgiveness is not deserved, and no one else would forgive me anyway. So all I hope for is not that she still forgives me, but only that Night will hasten. 

For this is the Night I realize that is what I have been waiting for: an everlasting Night. It took my own hands to create this everlasting Night, but it comes to me when I have Power. For it was by myself, by my own Power, which I created my everlasting Night. 

And so I now descend into Night and away from the world and Ginny's forgiving face, and I whisper as the night floats towards me as a welcomed, lovely benediction, "Good night, Percy Weasley. Good night."


End file.
